“How’s he doing?” Al stuck his head in, but Daisy waved him off.
“He’s doin’ fine, Al, get on back to the grill.”
Mede, standing on the crate, his fur sopping with soapy water, thought nothing of the exchange; he was quite content to continue washing the plates. Yesterday he told stories for his dinner, a day’s walk East of here. Tomorrow: who knows?
Daisy asked, “You’re getting’ awful wet there, honey, want a towel?”
“No ma’am,” Mede answered politely, “On my planet it rains quite a lot. Getting wet doesn’t bother me much. You’re a peach to offer, though.”
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